Calculate the value of Love
by thundercow
Summary: When Brief falls in love with Panty, Panty falls in sex with Brief. — PantyBrief, drabble collection.
1. calculate the value of love

**notes** – I ship this so hard.

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**calculate the value of love**

**1.**

He thinks: a bouquet of smiling flowers, german chocolate, quiet candlelight, cologne, perfect weather, shiny leather shoes.

She doesn't need to think: there's only sex, sex, sex.

Then Brief knocks on the door of the church like he has a purpose other than bedding her, and she's not exactly pleased because she's already half-naked (due to an intense fight with Stocking over the remote) and impatient. He's in that sorry jumpsuit of his, except this time he's equipped himself with a sea-green bow tie and the usual jittery smile. Brief tumbles so haplessly through his words, that Panty has long stopped listening by the time he manages to speak coherently. She barely hears him talking about a date in the city, and she laughs a hilarious laugh, like she's just seen bad, awkward, virgin sex.

Seriously? Her? She isn't trained for the trivalry of dates and posh dinners, she's a bitch as much as she is an angel, which puts her somewhere between a borderline cafe and the shithole of a bar downtown. Panty knows she doesn't deserve to be treated like a princess, and it's not like she's asking to be pampered from head to toe. All she needs is good sex and beer, and she's as contented as she thinks she can be.

Brief doesn't quite agree though. He says something along the lines of 'you do deserve a date and you aren't that much a bitch, and you're beautiful and great' with a stutter permanently fixated in his throat. The message gets across though, enough for Panty to stop scratching under her bra and regard the boy with wide, unguarded eyes and an open, lipstick-smeared mouth.

She fights an involuntary smile, fights back her desire to have intercourse under her pink blankets, and stalks off to snatch her underwear off the couch.


	2. lucifer

**2.**

There is a girl who steals his breath every time she flashes her underwear.

Her hair is a riot of lightning. It falls in all the right ways, cascades over her milky shoulders and down to the small of her back. Her eyes are deadly blue, the kind that make men go weak in the knees with just one flick of an eyelash. Whatever she wears, she flaunts it with her glamour, whether it is a crimson red dress, her uniform, or nothing at all. She's an angel, but that isn't the reason why he loves her so.

She's a portmanteau of immoralities – juggles the sins of lust, greed and sloth with one manicured hand while orally abusing vulgarities with tulip red lips. She slouches with zero finesse, sits with her legs parted, plucks the strap of her elaborate-lace bra to try and wiggle out more comfort. She conducts herself to her own inclinations – doesn't mind being a real bitch and hurting other people to get to her means. She's a free-spirit, unhampered by the glory of societal virtues. She brushes off decency and points Backlace at the forehead of obligation.

And good god, that is amazing, to not be governed by anyone but yourself – to fight for your desires. If only he can do the same, if only he can generate the courage that exudes off her skin. She doesn't need the arc of her wings, doesn't need the glow of her halo – he'll see her as an angel no matter what happens.

But now, there is a dull circle lying dead at the foot of the bed, the feathers of crippled wings fading against the sheets – and a look of utter defeat plastered on her face. She has nothing left except a pair of torn panties – and as he is pulled away from her, he searches whatever light that remains in her eyes.

And the wonderful thing is that he can still see she's an angel.

A fallen angel.


	3. purple elephants

**notes** – oh man, sorry to all the readers, I was kind of blocked for this chapter, haha. Hope you enjoy (:

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**3.**

She's running dangerously low on sugar in her blood when she finds the tiny box in Panty's drawer. Stocking immediately dismisses it as a pack of condoms, and it doesn't seem sweet or edible. She's prepared to toss it aside and continue to rummage through the filthy room in search of money to replenish her stash of frosted cupcakes and melt-in-your-mouth candy canes, but her curiosity smothers her craving (just barely).

She places the small velvet box in the middle of her palm and flicks it open with her thumb, and the necklace coiled in up the cushiony interior is all winking diamonds and glamorous sparkles and looks like snowy mint licorice. Stocking had always been more of a pearl-sort of angel, they were bigger and rounder and reminded her of the tranquil image of juicy gumballs.

She isn't quite jealous about the fact that Panty's accessories now have a welcome addition (those gold bangles were all brown and rusted now). Rather, Stocking needs to find out who gave her the necklace, and how much sex did she have to power (or breeze) through to get the diamonds on her scrawny collarbones.

Stocking hears footsteps up the hallway to Panty's room and takes the last few seconds to dive through the numerous lacy undergarments in the drawer to excavate spare cash or anything she can sell to earn funds for her sweets. The next moment though, her sister is screaming at the open doorway and tackling her onto the lumpy bed. Stocking wails out in a panic because she doesn't know when was the last time the sheets had been washed, but knows how much men Panty's had over since the weekend.

"Cut it out!" Stocking insists as Panty tugs at her hair and threatens to yank the head off Honekoneko.

"I haven't done anything wrong!"

Her sister swipes the necklace out of her hand and leaps off her, hurrying to fling it into the drawer of wrinkled panties. "D-don't look through my stuff, you mangy sweet-freak," Panty whines through gritted teeth. She looks more anxious and nervous than angry. Stocking raises an intrigued eyebrow at the spectacle.

"Oh, someone _special_ gave that to you?" she whistles as she rises up from the floor from where they'd toppled off the bed. She combs her hair down with one hand and smoothes the skirt of her dress. Panty hops on the spot, deliberately avoiding her sister's eyes.

"Well. _yeah_, but I don't give a shit," she mumbles, rolling her mascara-lined eyes for added effect.

When Stocking takes one step towards the drawer, Panty has already taken off her panties, aiming the gun at the middle of her sister's temple with the most threatening glare. Stocking smirks.

"Let me guess, Brief?" she drawls it out, slow and teasing.

Panty roars, sounding the battle drums.


End file.
